


All the Same to Different Degrees

by btBatt



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Post-Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete gets the flu and hides it expertly (except for how he doesn't at all).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Same to Different Degrees

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy baby fic I wrote because I'm procrastinating.

Distantly, Pete knows he’s fucked himself over. He’s been jet lagged for a month straight, not to mention the revival of his insomnia. It’s not so bad, mostly. But he sees the lights from the stage, blinding him, and he feel his life bleeding out and running neon along the road, encased in his sweat along with tiny beads of adrenaline, and his body thinks it’s traveling back in time. Add that to the fact that he stays up after shows to hang out with everyone just to prove he isn’t old, and the fact that he gets up every morning at 7:30 AM Central Time (no matter where he is in the world) to chat with Meagan and Bronx before school.

That’s not a problem. It’s not like he got a full eight hours even during the hiatus. He still had a kid, okay, and other professional ambitions.

Not really. The problem here, Pete has discerned, is that he’s spending his nights in amphitheaters filled to the brim with kids who spend their days in high schools which are basically incubators for any communicable disease.

Furthermore, no matter how trivial and harmless the disease, Pete feels like he might be dying right now. But it’s not like he’s never had a cold before, goddammit, so instead of reverting to Pete-Wentz-Drama-Queen he takes to his hoodies and his bunk, wrapped up in one and encased in the other, and tries very hard to remember how they lived through being sick in the fucking van. Despite the bad rap, he has grown up a tad. 

He doesn’t have a cough, thank God, because that’s the one thing sure to get him caught by the fans. In fact, Pete doesn’t really want to get caught by the band either. A slightly off center part of his head is chanting that he can’t be fucking the band up, not yet, he just got it back. Anyway, he’s mostly fatigued beyond belief and achy and his head is trying to split open. But that’s okay. He spent most of his 20’s feeling like that at least half the time (sans the sore throat, but whatever). He can still smile if he drinks enough cough syrup and pops some Aleve, anything that doesn’t require a prescription. He might be a little loopy, but he can swim through this and come out the other side, no one the wiser.

It works, except he maybe sleeps in. Three days in a row. Nobody should notice that, but Patrick starts sending him looks. But Pete can handle that. He’s been nearly laid up for three days, so the cold’s got to be about done with him anyway. His immune system’s always been tough. All he has to do now is wait it out just a little longer.

On the fourth day he sleeps through his alarm, Patrick corners him. Literally. Pete’s in his bunk, blinds parted as he alternates between focusing on the trees they pass and letting it all blur together like runny paint. He likes the idea that nothing’s dried yet, that he can still smear his hands across the world and fuck up the scenery with his fingerprints. He’s got half a mind to write that down, but moving seems like a feat at the moment, so he’s just elaborating on the metaphor in his head when someone knocks on the section of wall beside his bunk.

The curtain peels back to reveal Patrick’s face, his eyebrows drawn together even as he smiles. Pete blinks in his friend’s direction.

“Pete,” Patrick sighs, strangled and calm and very, very much a tone that makes Pete’s head flounder with guilt. Familiar and ancient. “Man,” he says, pushing Pete’s legs back and cramming into the bunk with him, “we’ve gotta talk.”

Pete swallows and his skin prickles, either from fever or claustrophobia. He’s not sure the cause matters if the end result is the same. When he doesn’t respond, Patrick continues:

“You haven’t called Meagan in four days and she’s _worried_. Bronx hasn’t gotten to talk to you either, and all you do is sleep. If…” Patrick’s gaze slides out the window, filled with disappointment and frustration (Pete tells himself he can’t detect concern). “If you’re having a hard time or…if it’s touring, you. If there’s a problem, we can’t fix it if we don’t talk about it.”

Pete blinks again and his fried brain feels like it’s taking too long to process this information. The muscles in Patrick’s neck flex as he clenches his jaw.

“We’re out here again because we thought it would be good for us,” he continues in a rush. “If it’s….if you think you need to talk to someone…”

And, oh. Wait, no. No no no no no. Patrick’s got the entirely wrong idea here. Entirely. In an attempt to _say_ something, anything, stop Patrick right the fuck _there_ , Pete ends up lurching forward and opening his mouth, effectively smacking his head on the top of the bunk.

“Ah, fuck! Wait, no,” Pete groans. “I’m not.” He slumps against the his pillows and smirks in a mix of feverclaustrophobiaanxiety because Patrick obviously cares, even after all this time, and he’s not sure what to think of Meagan calling Patrick for a progress report. And then his chest tightens when it re-dawns on him just what Patrick is saying because Pete really is fucking it all up and, no, no, the band just came back to him, fuck, and his head is suddenly light with the whiplash of it all. Patrick cocks his head to the side, waiting for an elaboration. Despite the common misconception, they really can’t read each other’s minds, but at the same time Patrick knows that an anxious or depressed Pete takes a lot longer to collect his thoughts than a stable or manic Pete. And since he seems to think Pete’s gone off the deep end, he’s being patient.

Pete lifts one side of his mouth in a sort of smile. He’s missed his Patrick.

“I’m not,” he says again, grinning. “I think I’ve got a bug that’s taking a while to chase out, but it’s nothing like. It’s fine.” Pete cocks his head to the side. “Since when do you have Meagan’s number?”

Patrick’s brow furrows. “Is that a metaphor for something else? Because, really—”

“It’s—” Pete laughs aloud at himself, feeling disconnected from his body. “I’ve got a cold.”

“I haven’t heard you cough or blow your nose once,” Patrick says disbelievingly.

Pete rolls his eyes. “Like you’ve been listening for it.” Patrick’s eyes slide back to watch the window and, while he’s not blushing (he seems to have grown out of that a tad; it’s more of a challenge these days, Pete’s realizing), he squirms in his seat. Pete’s eyes widen in response. “Wait, how long have you and Meagan been talking?”

“A cold is a respiratory infection, Pete. I haven’t heard you cough a single time. And she’s worried, okay? You haven’t missed a single call until this week.”

“I have a sore throat,” Pete says in defense of his illness, feeling strangely affronted at Patrick’s disbelief, even as he musters enough energy to grab Patrick’s hand and press it against his own forehead. “And I meant to call her back, but we’ve been busy literally every—”

“Jesus Christ—you are burning up. Fucking….Pete,” Patrick groans.

Pete flails. “I’ve got a cold!” He winces at the sting in his throat and Patrick sends him an exasperated look.

“Do you get a flu shot every year?”

“What? No. Those things are shit. Ash got one the year Bronx was born—protect the baby and all that, yeah?—and she got the flu anyway—hey!” Patrick shoves his head down into the pillows and he doesn’t even have to say Pete’s name in that reprimanding tone for Pete to practically hear it.

“You’ve probably got the flu, idiot.”

“Same difference,” he grumbles, rubbing at his head over dramatically even though it didn’t even hit the wall behind him…not that Patrick needs to know that.

“Not really.” And Patrick’s still frustrated, but some of the fondness creeps back into his voice. “Influenza can be a lot nastier. And—jeez, you’ve probably been infecting people all over the country.”

“Just tryin’ to leave my mark on this sad, desolate world.” Pete smiles even though he feels kind of guilty and even though his eyes are only half open. The conversation’s wiping him out.

“God, I can’t believe you’ve been playing shows every night.”

“Wait…” Pete blinks like it’s going to help him think. “What’re you doing on my bus?”

“Switched with Joe for the morning.” Patrick waves his hand dismissively. Pete grins again until Patrick starts to move.

“No, wait.” His chest tightens when Patrick back is turned from the middle of the aisle. “Don’t.”

Patrick turns back, confusion written all over his face and he grabs Pete’s hand long enough to give it back to Pete (when did he reach out?). “You’re okay,” he says softly. “I’m going to get you some water, ‘kay? Don’t suppose you’ve been staying hydrated.”

And then he’s gone and it seems like way too long before he comes back, before Pete resurfaces to reality with him. Patrick twists the lid off the water bottle before handing it over and, shit, holy fuck that’s the most beautiful thing ever and Pete hadn’t even known he was thirsty.

“Fuck, hey, no, c’mon,” Patrick says as he pries the bottle away. There are only a couple more swallows at the bottom. “You’re gonna make yourself sick. Gotta drink slow.”

Pete nods, feeling heavy, feeling sated. He makes grabby hands for Patrick. Patrick twists the top on and throws the water into the bunk across the aisle before tentatively making his way in again.

“You know we’re not gonna fit,” he says although he’s already laying half on top of Pete.

“I’m cold,” Pete reasons. If he’s cold, then Patrick will definitely fit.

“You’re miserable,” Patrick notes a little while after they’re settled. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I didn’t want to be,” Pete says quietly.

Patrick sighs. “That’s not how it works when it’s your head hurting, and that’s not how it works when your body’s hurting.”

“I know,” he whispers, eyes slipping shut.

“Mmhm. You’re seeing a doctor when we get to Detroit, just an FYI.”

“I should call Meagan…”

Patrick laughs, pressing his lips quickly to the crown of Pete’s head. “I already did. You’ve been vouched for.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.” Pete hides his smile somewhere in Patrick’s shoulder.

“Shut up and sleep, man.” Patrick starts to card his fingers through Pete’s hair. “You can call your girlfriend later. I’ve got you.”

“Thanks,” Pete mumble-slurs.

“Shh.”

Patrick closes the blinds.


End file.
